


me and you, setting in a honeymoon

by amillionsmiles



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, CLOWN BEHAVIOR, M/M, friends with benefits except atsumu catches feelings what's new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: Atsumu gets caught in the revolving door that is Nishinoya's life, but things turn out (mostly) okay.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Nishinoya Yuu
Comments: 34
Kudos: 110





	me and you, setting in a honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

> i rubbed my last two brain cells together and they sparked this. kept the tokyo olympics in 2020 and messed with some manga timing because it's fanfic and i do what i want.

_February 2017_

A good joke, Atsumu thinks, is like a good set: it has to be delivered with proper speed and timing, measured against the anticipating recipient, easy to hit. It has to _connect._ Atsumu’s sets do that.

His jokes, apparently, do not.

He blames Osamu, really. If, in their childhood, Osamu hadn’t always been there to back him up, then maybe Atsumu would have worked out his whole brain-to-mouth pipeline sooner. He even misses Kita’s deadpan stare at his antics, or Aran’s peevishness—anything would be better than the flat chuckle he’s getting from his tablemates right now. Whatever triumphant smugness he imbibes from a setter dump, _this_ feeling is its exact opposite, a combination of sulkiness and pissed the hell off that causes him to cast his eyes about the room, where he sees a tuft of hair that he last encountered in Tokyo, under the bright lights of the Spring InterHigh.

“Oi, if it isn’t Karasuno’s super libero,” says Atsumu, sidling up to Nishinoya at the bar.

Nishinoya looks up at him. Recognition, and the smallest flicker of fear, a year’s past of muscle memory, before his brow smoothens and he raises his glass in good cheer.

“Miya Atsumu, the devil server himself.”

At that, Atsumu grins. He remembers it well, their first encounter: targeting Nishinoya as the base of Karasuno’s morale, scoring one service ace after the other, until the libero had risen to the challenge. Atsumu had anticipated their matchup even more the next year, his appetite whetted by Inarizaki’s loss. 

“What are you doing in Kagoshima?” Nishinoya asks. 

“V.League training camp. What’re _you_ up to these days?”

College volleyball, he figures, bracing himself to hear a name like Tohoku, maybe Chuo or Waseda. The amber of his drink catches the light; Atsumu swirls it around his glass before taking a sip.

“I’ve been traveling,” Nishinoya says instead.

 _“Eh?”_ Atsumu nearly spit-takes, but Nishinoya barely notices, too busy steam-rolling ahead. He’s a talkative guy, something Atsumu probably should have figured based on how much he acted as a team anchor on court.

“I saved up some money working as a delivery boy. Also took some requests as a handyman—turns out I’m not too bad at fixing things, and my small hands are good at getting into those hard-to-reach places.” Nishinoya flexes for emphasis; Atsumu’s shoulders, meanwhile, sag a little more with every word.

Eyes sparkling, Nishinoya latches onto his silence. “You’re bothered.”

“‘M not,” Atsumu says. He _is,_ but he’d only realized it once Nishinoya said it aloud, so it doesn’t count.

At that, Nishinoya laughs. “Another shot, please,” he asks the bartender, before glancing sideways—Atsumu, never one for backing down from a challenge, requests: “Me, too.”

They knock back their drinks together. Nishinoya rubs his mouth with the back of his hand.

“So you’re not playing volleyball at all.”

“Nope.”

“Man!” Atsumu groans up at the ceiling. The liquor is starting to hit, probably. “What a damn waste!”

“Miya-san,” calls one of his training mates. “We’re heading out.”

Flicking his fingers, he waves them away. “I’ll stay.”

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

Kagoshima is a seaside city, with a drier and warmer winter compared to the rest of Japan. As he and Nishinoya leave the bar, Atsumu sucks the night air deep into his lungs, its salt taste clinging to the back of his throat. Nishinoya is regaling him with all there is to do in the area—the Amuran ferris wheel, the cut-glass factory on the outskirts—all places Atsumu hasn’t visited, focused as he is on setting faster, farther, freakier.

“This is my last stop,” Nishinoya tells him. “I went north from Miyagi and then worked my way south.”

“So then what comes next?”

“The rest of the world, of course. Haven’t you wanted to go?”

He’d thought about it this summer, watching Tobio-kun onscreen. But Atsumu hadn’t cared about Rio as much as he cared about the stage. _The Olympics._ Licking his lips, he thinks: _come 2020, that’ll be me. Japan’s National Team._

“I think I’m a home-grown kind of monster,” he says. Almost immediately, he imagines Aran yelling, _what kind of statement is that_ , but Nishinoya says nothing, just nods solemnly.

“‘Samu also quit on me, y’know,” Atsumu offers in the silence. “Said he was gonna be the happier twin.”

“Life’s long.” Noya grins. “Why hold anything back?”

The wind paints his cheeks slightly ruddy. Atsumu sighs, some combination of alcohol and sleep pulling at the corner of his eyes.

Tilting his head, Nishinoya says, “Give me your phone.”

Frowning, but too tired to question, Atsumu hands it over. His screen’s glow lights up Nishinoya’s face, and for the first time that night Atsumu truly registers their height difference. Then Nishinoya presses his phone back into his hands and points at him, an outsize presence compared to his stature.

“That’s my number, Miya Atsumu. Use it or lose it.”

And so they part ways.

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

_August 2020_

By the time the Olympics end, Atsumu is utterly blasted. Everyone in the Harumi Athletes’ Village goes wild around the closing ceremony, expunging two week’s worth of stress and relief by sweating liquor through their pores. The next day, they’ve packed up their things and cleared out, but Onigiri Miya now has a Tokyo branch, which Osamu closes off for the night so they can throw yet another party. Ever the enterprising businessman, he forces the team to pose with their silver medals so he can take a photo for the restaurant wall first.

“It’ll be good for business,” he says.

“Feed us already,” Atsumu whines.

It’s an impressive showing. Osamu doesn’t have enough seating for everyone who turns up, so there’s a mad scramble for chairs. Hinata throws his wallet as an attempt at a seat check; out flies a plastic white square with a red circle printed on it.

Hoshiumi lunges for it immediately. “Oh my god, Hinata, is this one of the ones from the village?” he snickers, waving the condom in Hinata’s face.

“I heard they manufactured 200,000 for the event,” offers Kuroo. The man is a walking factbook for anything related to sports and culture, and apparently the sexual appetite of the world’s greatest athletes makes that list.

“It’s lucky!”

“It’s Tobio-kun who’s getting lucky tonight,” Atsumu says, watching his fellow setter go red at the ears. Hinata ignores the comment and pushes Kageyama, nudging him to scoot over so that they can share the chair.

Fucking ridiculous, is what it is.

“Is this seat taken?”

Atsumu looks up to find Nishinoya standing over him with that ridiculous gelled hair. Not even a _hello, Miya Atsumu. You played well, Miya Atsumu. Olympic Silver Medalist, wow!_

Stretching out his legs, he puts a foot on the chair and waves down Bokuto, who’s just emerged from the restroom in the back. “Yeah, actually. Was saving it for Bokkun.”

Bokuto slides into place, oblivious. “Sweet!”

Feigning regret, Atsumu says, “It’s nice to see you again, Noya-kun.”

“Same to you.” Completely undeterred, Nishinoya squeezes into the space between Atsumu and Bokuto, leaning over the table to greet Hinata.

“Noya-san, you’re so tan!”

“I’ve been sailing all over,” Nishinoya brags. “Greece, France, Spain…”

 _Italy, too,_ Atsumu thinks, boring holes into the side of Nishinoya’s face. Back in 2018, he’d texted Nishinoya about the upcoming game between the Jackals and the Adlers. Nishinoya had sent back a picture of himself with a fish, and one word: _MARLINS!!!_

“What the _hell_ is this supposed to mean?” Atsumu asked Sakusa, waving it at him in the locker room. “‘I’ve got bigger fish to fry?’ Is it something like that?”

“Like I know or care,” Sakusa said, and left.

So no, he is not being _petty_ when he refuses to laugh at any of Nishinoya’s stories, and he’s not the least bit flattered when Nishinoya finally looks at him, really looks, right as everyone leaves for the night—“You were fun to watch on TV, Miya.”

“Huh,” he manages. The bell above the door jangles. At last, silence. Behind him, Osamu pauses his sweeping.

“Well,” his brother says. “You were certainly capricious tonight.”

“What kinda word is _that?_ ”

Osamu shrugs. “I have time to read more, these days. Mostly food service management and business advice, but sometimes I pick up a novel.”

“You and Kita should start a book club,” Atsumu grumbles. “Now toss me a rag. I’ll help.”

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

He looks up the word _capricious_ later that night, back in his hotel room. It means erratic and unpredictable, apparently.

 _staying in tokyo for 2 more wks if wna hang,_ he texts Nishinoya, before throwing his phone on the floor and going to sleep.  
  


⚊ ⚋ ⚊

Nishinoya is the kind of person who possesses no artifice whatsoever, which means he takes Atsumu up on his offer, which _then_ leaves Atsumu in the embarrassing position of trying to entertain someone who’s made it his life mission to experience everything.

“We could. Uh. Get popsicles?” he suggests upon meeting Nishinoya at the park.

Surprisingly, Nishinoya obliges. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “Full Power Sprint,” and Atsumu is absolutely not paying close attention to the way he twirls his Garigari-kun pop in order to keep it from dripping in the summer heat. To distract himself from his sudden-onset fixation with the blue staining Nishinoya’s tongue, he says, “I want to hear more about what you thought of the games.” 

“Ah.” Nishinoya has finished his snack and rests his chin on his palm. “They were good. I was on the edge of my seat. I almost— _almost—_ wished I could be on that court.”

“Let’s do it.” Atsumu stands up.

They rent some indoor shoes and pay entry at the nearest public gym. It’s mid-day, so there’s not much competition for space, and Atsumu savors his soles’ squeak as he walks across the polished floor, Nishinoya waiting on the opposite side of the net.

His first serve dies on Nishinoya’s forearms. The second one brushes his fingers, too much momentum for Nishinoya to fully redirect. But then Nishinoya growls, that aura of competitiveness Atsumu remembers so well taking over, and Atsumu smirks. His next serve is his hardest yet, with wicked spin and excellent wobble, and—Nishinoya meets it.

His receive is beautiful. Nice and high, plenty of time for a setter to get under it and weigh all his options. Which is exactly what Atsumu does, something winged taking control of his body as he sprints from the endline to Nishinoya’s side of the court, ducking under the net just in time to welcome the leather with his fingertips, sending it in another soaring arc through the air. _And the crowd goes wild,_ his head supplies. 

“Guess I’ve still got it in me,” says Nishinoya. Hands on his hips, chest puffed out exactly how it was in that stupid fishing photo.

Atsumu maybe likes the picture a little bit more, now.

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

He doesn’t _mean_ to fall into bed with the guy.

The thing about Atsumu is that he’s calculating on the court, but once he steps out of the paint, he second-guesses himself more than he would like. _Do you ever think,_ Kita was fond of saying—not in any reprimanding way, just one of those classic words-become-actions-become-habits-become-character Kita things. Atsumu’s problem is that he _over_ thinks, but always after the fact. He and Noya had gone out to dinner and Noya had just kept _looking_ at him, like he was some location on a map Noya wanted to pin. And then one thing led to another and now they’re here, in his hotel room.

After taking off his shoes, Noya sails past him, fearless. He sits on the bed like he belongs there. Slowly, Atsumu unclenches his hands and removes them from his pockets, but he doesn’t move from his position by the door.

As if sensing his hesitance, Noya folds his hands behind his head and leans back on the pillows.

“You know, I used to be a giant scaredy-cat, when I was little.”

Atsumu wrinkles his nose. _“You?”_

“Yeah. Dogs, birds, onions, you name it. My grandpa trained it out of me pretty quickly, though. Playing you that first time at InterHigh, though—it all came back. I felt young again.”

Atsumu draws closer, perching himself on the edge of the mattress. “I scare you?”

“Your serves did. But then I got over it, and it was an exciting challenge. Fear is just missed opportunity, after all.”

Atsumu snags Noya’s right wrist, presses his mouth to it. Already, there are faint bruises from where Noya had taken the brunt of his serves today. He wants to click his tongue. _My, my, this is what you get for being out of practice._ Instead, he moves to the skin of Noya’s left. All the while, Noya watching, eyes dark. _Hungry, hungry._

“I’m still going to win,” Atsumu says.

Noya is already pushing him back and climbing on top of him. “We’ll see about that.”

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

The days spin like revolving doors. On their fourth consecutive day of sleeping together, Atsumu gives up all pretense of not anticipating it. Noya has other friends to catch up with and Atsumu has his own plans in Tokyo, so they don’t spend every waking moment together, but it’s enough time for him to get acquainted with how Noya looks fresh out the shower, hair flattened against his forehead, and the syllables of his first name tumbling off Noya’s tongue. They rent over-the-top action movies through the hotel TV service and watch them late into the night, chatting over convenience store snacks and trying to throw popcorn in each other’s mouth.

When Atsumu visits Onigiri Miya to pick up something for dinner, Osamu squints at him.

“You’re getting laid.”

“Shut up,” says Atsumu, in the middle of texting Noya to ask what he wants in his onigiri.

Osamu drops the bag with his order on his head.

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

“There are lots of fun things to do in Osaka,” Atsumu makes the mistake of saying one afternoon. He’s busy nuzzling the spot behind Noya’s ear in an attempt to get Noya to feed him a chip from the bag he’s holding.

In his lap, Noya stiffens. “Atsumu.” He sets down the bag and wriggles away, turning to face him. “I’m going abroad again.”

Atsumu blinks. “What?”

His second thought is: _don’t you dare say ‘we talked about this.’_ In the past twelve days they’ve talked about volleyball and fears and superheroes and turn-ons but they did not, Atsumu realizes, talk about the future.

“—in a few days? I’m going to do Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, and then meet up with Asahi in Egypt. I want to see the Pyramids.”

Well isn’t _that_ lovely. Absolutely delightful. Positively splendid.

“Atsumu?” Noya is remorseful. “I’ll text.”

 _Make a decision, Atsumu._ He is a setter, after all. King of weighing options, a general choosing amongst any array of lethal weapons.

“I’ll probably be too busy,” Atsumu says. “V.League season starts up again in October, so I won’t really have time. Have fun.”

Noya doesn’t stay the night.

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

Like clockwork, the change of seasons. Post-Olympics, Hinata has left for another team, Asas São Paolo, but Atsumu gets used to his new outside hitter quickly. He is nothing if not adaptable, resilient, brilliant. Atsumu does not pine. Atsumu throws himself into volleyball. Atsumu learns how to make something that isn’t cup ramen for his dinner. Atsumu maybe drunk dials Noya a total of five times, each time staying on the line long enough to hear Noya pick up and say, “Atsumu?” before he hangs up and enjoys the satisfaction of seeing Noya on his caller ID, trying to call him back. He sends him to voicemail.

“If you keep this up, you’re going to lose our bet,” Osamu says. It’s December and the lights in the Kobe shop touch everything with warmth. He has art on the walls, now, and a monstera plant in the corner that he waters once every two weeks. _I’m going to be the happier twin._

“Yeah yeah, whatever.”

Osamu stops wiping the counter, bracing his hands on it and leaning over. “‘Tsumu, d’ya know the difference between feeling full and feeling satisfied?”

When Atsumu doesn’t answer, he says: “It’s asking for exactly what you want.”

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

_February 2021_

Groaning, Atsumu rolls out of bed to answer the knock on his door.

Upon opening it, he finds Noya wearing a backpack, a crinkled slip of paper in his hand.

Atsumu shuts the door in his face.

Or, at least, he _tries_ to, but Noya wedges his foot in the gap. Fucking libero reflexes. A struggle ensues, Atsumu pushing with all his might as, on the other side, Noya digs in his heels and puts his shoulder into fighting back. There’s a nice old lady who lives on his floor, and Atsumu sincerely hopes she doesn’t walk by and witness whatever break-in is happening right now.

“Leave me alone!”

“I want to talk!”

“I don’t wanna hear it!”

“You’re scared!” Noya challenges.

Atsumu steps back. He’s only _mildly_ smug when Noya trips and stumbles over the threshold from the sudden change in resistance.

“I’m not a coward,” he sneers, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who couldn’t wait to put an ocean between us.”

Noya has the decency to look embarrassed. “I wasn’t running,” he says. “I just—you’re hungry for volleyball. I’m hungry for other things.”

His stance is familiar. It’s what made Atsumu notice him in the first place, all those years ago—that posture and those eyes that said: _do your worst, I’ll take it._

Steeling himself, he fixates on a point just over Noya’s head. The sense of superiority it gives him is just enough to get him through the next words. “D’you want to be with me. Because I want to be with you.”

 _Fear is just missed opportunity._ He forces himself to look Noya in the eyes.

Noya’s already grinning. “I came here, didn’t I?”

⚊ ⚋ ⚊

Atsumu sends Osamu a picture of them together the next day.

_bet’s still on xoxo -ur better twin_

_Who do you think gave him your address, dumbass???_ Osamu texts back.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/mnonoaware) \- come say hi!


End file.
